


Angel Of Death

by nowhere_dawn_death_phan



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M, Thats for you to decide, also john be crushing on moran a lil, but moran? not nice, sci-fi story or convoluted existential metaphor?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_dawn_death_phan/pseuds/nowhere_dawn_death_phan
Summary: John H. Watson, decorated war veteran, physician, oh, and Angel of Death. He’s witnessed more destruction than most can only imagine, so you’ll forgive him if he’s a little callous these days. Still, it seems even omens of misfortune have to meet their match at some point. Funny, he never thought his would have such a pretty face.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 18





	Angel Of Death

John Watson had always viewed himself as an Angel of Death. He’d hated the idea of being the last face a person saw, and hated it even more when it became a reality, as though he’d been trusted to do a job, and he’d let everybody down. Sometimes, he thinks he can feel those he failed watching him, angrily, hungrily.  
He can feel them now.  
They wrap his clothes into their hands and drag him down, they sit on his chest and make it hard for him to breathe. They throw shadows across the room in front of his eyes.  
They’ve caught up to him; there’s nowhere left to run.

The pain in his side has dulled, now, and the sharp stabbing lances that remain are made easier to deal with merely by the presence of a familiar face above him. Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes smiles a small, sad smile, and gently adjusts John’s head in his lap.  
One of Holmes’s hands is brushing Watson’s hair, the other is bloody and twined with Watson’s and clamping down on the gunshot wound in the doctor’s side.

Two figures appear at the edge of his peripheral vision, and it takes Watson a second longer to recognise them than he’s entirely comfortable with.  
Lestrade turns his head away again instantly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and Watson wants to yell, wants to scream that after all he’s done for him, Lestrade could at least have the common decency to acknowledge him as he died.  
That anger fades though, as the second figure moves and settles himself down next to Watson’s head, clutching his constable hat to his chest.  
It’s an awkward gesture, but he appreciates that Clarky’s trying.

Lestrade says something, but Watson’s focus is back on Holmes’s flint-grey eyes so he doesn’t quite catch it.  
Holmes’s watching Lestrade, and he nods and then looks down at Watson. “Lestrade’s gone for a carriage,” he says, and his voice is calm, as if he truly believes that’s going to make a difference. “And as soon as he comes back, we’re going to get you out of here.”  
Watson wants to tell him not to bother, that he’ll be dead before Lestrade gets back anyway, but the words won’t come.

The ghosts are back, now.  
They’re heavier than they were, squashing him, suffocating him under their combined weight.  
They tug at his clothes with more ferocity now, intent on pulling him down with them.  
Their hands scratch at his skin, burning and poking inside his wound.  
A pained moan is torn savagely from somewhere inside him without his consent, and Holmes whispers a gentle apology that Watson only half hears, and can’t fully process. It’s not his fault anyway; Holmes isn’t controlling the demons. Nobody is. They work alone.  
He turns his head, fixes his eyes on the shafts of light through the grimy window.

Watson had always hated being the last face a person saw, but now, he was glad he wasn’t alone. He wondered if that was how the other soldiers had seen it.  
What he’d viewed as a loss, had they viewed as a victory?  
Had they been grateful for his company, meagre and pitiful as it was?

His wings were broken, and feathers detached themselves and blew across the floor on a drought. There were more voices now, that or they were just talking louder, but it sounded farther away, and no matter how tightly Holmes gripped his hand, he could barely feel it.

As the angel of death took his last breath, his ragged wings beat frantically in terror, pounding against the floor before they trembled and stilled, the feathers melting into shadows. His thorny crown cracked and crumbled to dust and Holmes was left clutching a bloody waistcoat and an empty body, the vessel that wore Watson’s face slowly turning cold beneath his fingertips.

The new angel of death rose to take his fallen friends place, cradling his bloody hands close to his chest, thick black wings brushing the ceiling above him, fire in his eyes, vengeance in his heart and only one name on his lips.  
 _Colonel Sebastian Moran. You have invoked the wrath of a god._

_Good luck._


End file.
